


A Grief That Can't be Spoken

by On_the_Side_of_the_Angels



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Death, Lone Survivor, M/M, Regrets, Things left unsaid, one last connection, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_the_Side_of_the_Angels/pseuds/On_the_Side_of_the_Angels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is the only one left alive after the battle at the barricade. He laments over his lost love and how he will never know how he felt about him.</p><p>Had to get my feelings out after reading one too many sad stories. Hope you like it. please comment :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grief That Can't be Spoken

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Miranda for editing this for me! I was inspired by reading other sad stories and had to get my feelings out. Hope you like it. Please comment! :)

The battle is over. The air is full of silence. 

He hadn’t made it back in time. Enjolras had sent him away to deliver a message when the fighting began. He had said it was urgent. He said it could not wait. He would not have gone if he had known it would end this way.  

Enjolras had assured them that the rest of the people would rise with them; that they would fill the streets of Paris with barricades and bring the unjust government falling to its knees. He said they would not fight alone . . . He promised.  

But he had been wrong.   

 _Enjolras looks over the small square, the barricade, the bodies, the soldiers, his friends. He looks down at his feet to see his own body, hanging out of the second story window of the small cafe where they used to meet and plan their revolution. He had been shot...the last to fall. How could he have been so wrong? How could the people of Paris have left them to fight all alone? Was he responsible for all of these deaths?                                                  Including his own..._  

Now, he walks alone through the street. He scans the scene before him. The only sound a slow, rhythmical tapping made by blood dripping off of the barricade onto the stone cobbles below. He walks around the bodies of dead soldiers and climbs over the barricade. There, he sees his friends, their bodies bloodied and broken. Their faces contorted in expressions of defiance, pain, and fear. They had began so full of hope, hope breathed into their hearts by a powerful man who, with one word, could make anyone join his cause. A man who with one breath could cause the seasons to change. A man he loved . . .  

Grantaire is sober, but wishes he wasn’t as he searches through the wreckage for the body of the man he loved with all his heart. The man he had loved for ages but never told. The man he knew loved him as well but would never admit it for fear of losing his focus and dedication to the cause.  

 _Well what was that cause now?!_ Grantaire wonders. It was a failure. Blood on the street that, as he walked, was being washed away by the trickling rain. It was unimportant. Soon to be only a memory to the rest of the world. Soon to be forgotten.  

But never by Grantaire. Grantaire would carry forever in his heart the memory of that cause which was so damn important it stood in the way of love. That group of revolutionaries he had joined only to be closer to him...to Enjolras. His Apollo. The sun that brought life into his dark, alcohol-clouded world for the first time.  

 _As Enjolras watches from the window, he sees someone enter the square. It’s Grantaire . . . Grantaire who had been faithful to him till the end. Every time he had looked at the man’s face during meetings, he saw in his eyes that Grantaire did not fight for the sake of the cause. He did not fight to change the world. He did not fight for himself. He fought only because Enjolras fought. He came to the meetings only because Enjolras would not leave them._  

Grantaire looks up to scream at the heavens, to scream at the God who had torn his life apart, when he sees him. His love! The wonderful man who made his heart continue beating when it wanted to quit. There he was, hanging from a window frame. The red flag, the symbol of that all-important cause that had forever been the focus of his heart, still grasped tightly in his hands.  

Feelings he had been trying to hold back begin to fill Grantaire till he is about to burst. Feelings of longing; oh how he longed to hold that man in his arms for once. Hold him and never let him go, keep him safe, wrapped up in his strong embrace. And feelings of grief, overwhelming grief that threatens to knock him off his feet. The love of his life is dead and he had never voiced how he felt about him. How could things have ended like this; ended before they had even begun. And lastly, feelings of anger. He is angry at the government for making people angry enough to start this revolution. He is angry at the people of Paris for not rising up to aid the brave heros of the barricade. He is angry at Enjolras for starting this stupid war and for sending him away. He is angry at himself for not stopping Enjolras from starting this suicide mission and for leaving him when it mattered most, for not dying with the man he loved. And most of all he is angry at God for allowing this to happen when He could have stopped it.  

He runs up the stairs to the second floor of the cafe. Pushing bodies and broken chairs out of his way blindly, he forces a path to the window. Delicately, he pulls the thin body back inside the building. When he sees the face, he sinks to the floor, cradling the figure in his arms as he rocks back and forth.  

Among the many holes torn by bullets through the man’s bright red blazer, one is placed right above his heart...the heart Grantaire had longed for...The heart Grantaire wants nothing more than to mend with the power of his tears.  

Hesitantly, he reaches up a hand to brush the hair away from the man’s face. That beautiful golden hair that had shone like a halo of fire when he spoke of revolution in the town square, a perfect metaphor for the intensity of the feelings that had burned inside of him. Those perfect curls that used to bounce and fly around his face with the passion and intensity of his words. That hair had almost possessed a personality of it’s own, but now the gold is marred by darkness, the wild curls laid flat by matted blood. The same passion and conviction that had given them life have now, in a single breath, stolen that life from them forever.  

His bright blue eyes are dark and empty now. Grantaire remembers how those eye used to sparkle with ferocity and strength when he went on his rants about the government, the king, and revolution. And he remembers how those same eyes used to become soft and warm whenever he had looked into Grantaire’s. The proof of the love they had shared but never spoken of. The proof of what could now never be realized.  

And his lips . . . oh, those lips that Grantaire had longed to feel on his. Those lips that he had dreamed about for so long, wondering how they might feel. Those lips that had seemed never to cease speaking of revolution and power . . .  but in death are now silent. For the first time, Grantaire leans in close to the other man’s face. Quietly he whispers, “Do you permit it?” wishing with all his heart that there would be a reply. And he kisses him. He presses his lips to the other’s, now cold and lifeless. As he kisses him, the love of his life, who had never known how much he meant to him, he can hold it in no longer. As he kisses, as their bodies finally connect as one, the tears that had been held back for so long silently begin rolling down his cheeks. As they flow down his face like a lonely stream, they drop slowly onto the other man’s colorless cheeks.  

 _“I permit it . . . Of course I permit it” Enjolras whispers, although he knows no one can hear him. He is just an echo on the wind, a shadow in the corner. But as he watches, he could swear he felt soft tears falling on his cheeks, but when he reaches up to touch his face, he feels nothing there . . ._  

He pulls back from Enjolras’ lips and holds the man’s face close to his chest. His shoulders heave with silent sobs and the tears flow even heavier. They drip into the golden hair covered with blood, and, now pink, sink into the floor boards below. Grantaire wishes with all his heart that these tears could wash away all that had happened. He wishes they could carry away all the blood and set Enjolras’ heart beating again. He wishes they could bring his Apollo back to him.  

But in his heart, he knows this is the end. He knows that he will never see those eyes sparkle, or those curls bounce, or those dimples appear ever again. He will never hear that voice say the words he had lived to hear every day. So he will say what the other could not. “I love you Enjolras . . . I will love you always.” 

And as he speaks, he knows he will never love again . . . 

 _“I love you Grantaire . . . I always have” He wishes he had not been so blind. He wishes with all his heart, but it is too late._  

He wishes he could hear Enjolras’ voice just one more time . . . 

_“Grantaire!” He tries to call out, to let him know he’s there . . . to have one last connection . . ._

  And just as the thought crosses his mind, a wind rustles lightly through the cafe, and Grantaire thinks he hears . . . something . . . the echo of a voice . . . _“Grantaire!”_ But then it’s gone, carried away on the wind through the lonely streets of Paris.                                                                                    “Goodbye Enjolras . . .”, he whispers into the night.


End file.
